


Easier Said Than Done

by ClaraxBarton



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Angst, M/M, mention of non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-29 05:31:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6361411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaraxBarton/pseuds/ClaraxBarton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years after the war, one of the Gundam pilots has taken a turn down a dark path.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Easier Said Than Done

A/N: Quick one-shot 2x3 for 2x3 Club Dues for March

A/N 2: Reviews mean the world to me. Please, take the time to drop me a line and tell me what you liked.

Warnings: Angst, language, violence

Pairings: 2x3

 

_ Easier Said Than Done _

 

Detention cells all smelled the same, had that same blend of disinfectant and human waste – the overpowering burn of ammonia that could either be industrial cleaner or urine.

I had been in enough of them, over the years, that the stench should be familiar, should at least not have me rocking back on my heels and reflexively wiping at my nose, as if that could help. It didn't. I knew it wouldn't. Yet I did it anyway.

Story of my life – me banging my head against the fixed realities of time and space and hoping for something different. Crazy, I think is what they call that. Yeah, well, I probably was. Nothing new there – no need for some asshat with a fancy degree to weigh in. 

I followed the guard down the row of cells and I couldn't help but shiver. I'd been here before – well, not  _ this _ particular detention center – but I'd walked these halls plenty of times. Of course, I was used to being shoved, used to having my hands restrained and usually my ankles too if the officers on duty were enterprising enough to look up my war records. 

It was... if not quite  _ ironic _ to be here under such different circumstances, it was at least funny. Darkly funny. Bitterly funny. Shinigami humor.

The guard came to a halt in front of the cell at the end of the row, on the left, and I glanced into it. Shit.

Up until that point, I'd really thought this was all some kind of weird ass dream – hell, maybe even a hallucination as I, myself, was led to a cell to be restrained? But nope. Definitely not a hallucination. Definitely not a dream.

"This him?" The guard asked and he banged the flat of his palm against the cell door. It rattled, and the inhabitant of the cell shook himself awake.

I watched him, watched the body curled in on itself slowly unravel, watched those damn eyes open, go wide and then narrow. Watched the ice form. Well, hello to you, too. 

"Yeah, it's him," I confirmed.

The guard snorted and shook his head and I glared at him. He could fuck right off with that – with his judgment and his scorn. 

"You sure you wanna be responsible for him? He's charged with six counts of murder."

My glare was intimidating enough that he took a step back.

"I paid the bail, didn't I?" And I had  - with Quatre's money, but  _ still _ I'd been the one to sign the papers, cross the t’s and all that shit.

"Yeah, but -"

"You gonna let him out or should I order some room service?" I interrupted and the guard offered me a scowl. Pathetic. I'd stared down death for too long to be intimidated by  _ that _ look, especially on the face of a well-fed civilian whose life I'd no doubt saved, who got to live his pathetic, judgemental existence because of the sacrifices I'd made.

"Stand back," the guard instructed and I hesitated for a moment before stepping back and giving him the space to open up the door. Both of our eyes went to the cell's occupant as he slowly stood, his frame tall and broad and intimidating as hell. Always had been. But now? After the news vids screaming about him murdering six dudes with his bare hands?

Yeah, I'd known he was capable of it – hell, I'd fought a war by his side and I'd been on the receiving end of a few things he did to his  _ allies _ that made it clear he wasn't the gentle, teddy-bear hugging sort. But still.

It took a certain kind of  _ stamina _ , a certain commitment, to kill six grown men with nothing but your own force, your own rage. I was impressed, and yeah, I was a little jealous too.

But as crazy as I might be, I wasn't – most of the time – stupid. So when he stood up in that cell and glared down at both of us I took another step back. 

He smirked, the bastard, his wide, thin lips compressed but I saw that corner lift, saw the tilt. Yeah. Laugh it up while you could.

"You gonna cuff him?" I asked the guard.

He arched an eyebrow at me.

"He's out on bail – no longer a prisoner. Legally, I can't cuff him."

"Yeah, well... mind if I borrow your cuffs for a while?" Maybe the guard couldn't legally cuff him – but there sure as shit wasn't a law against  _ me _ cuffing him. 

Both regarded me with narrowed eyes.

I sighed. It'd been worth asking.

I gestured impatiently, a come here wave of my hand that in other circumstances would have earned me more than another icy glare. But he stepped out of the cell, fell in step beside me as the guard led us back down the hall and into the lobby, into the civilians who had no idea just how dangerous things had now gotten for them.

He accepted the bag from the front desk with his belongings - I was surprised to see his mask in it.

"That's not evidence?" I asked.

His lips quirked and he arched an eyebrow.

"Apparently not."

I scoffed. He'd been wearing it – or at least that's what the news vids said – so why the hell  _ wasn't _ it evidence? I was sure it had DNA on it – hell, I could  _ see _ a smear of blood on the bottom edge.

"Fucking idiots," I muttered, not at all quietly and a few of the officers who had been eyeing us uneasily stepped up their aggressive stance game. It was cute – funny as hell and I chuckled and shook my head. 

Nice try, but it took a lot more than some swaggering civvies waving around nightsticks to make  _ me _ cower. 

"They give you everything?" I asked, familiar with how creds and valuables tended to be lost in these situations.

He sifted through the bag and then nodded.

I sighed as I looked at the front doors to the detention center. Even through the tinted doors I could see the crowd, the shadows of vid cams and audio booms.

"Ready for the circus?"

He snorted a laugh and I realized the pun. Ha. Ha. 

I grabbed his elbow and I felt him tense under my touch, felt his bicep flex and yeah, my throat went a little dry, but I hung on. Forced myself not to remember the  _ last _ time I'd felt him do that and all the shit that had happened after. All the shit that had most definitely not been cuddling.

I led the way and instantly, as soon as the door was open just a crack, they started shouting questions, lights flashed, curses were hurled. It was like atmo being vented into space – the rush, the deafening roar. 

We shouldered our way through, him silent and me snarling, and we made it to the car that was waiting and I shoved him into the backseat unceremoniously, hoping he'd hit his head on the roof of the car but of course he didn't.

"Quatre," I explained when I joined him and he arched an eyebrow. "The bail too."

"You mean you didn't have ten million credits laying around?"

"You might wear a clown mask but that don't make you funny," I snarked. I rapped my knuckles on the partition between the back and the front – also tinted – and the car started to move, smooth and slow and I tamped down on my jealousy. What I wouldn't give to bury myself in the guts of this baby. 

I forced myself to focus on the here and now – fantasies of engine parts would need to wait.

"He's not meeting us."

It wasn't a question, but he was still looking for confirmation. I don't know who he thought was the idiot – me or Quatre – who would think that the head of Winner Inc. would allow himself to be seen in public – or in private – with a guy the news vids had oh so cleverly dubbed Bloody Barton. 

I gave him a look and he rolled his eyes, actually rolled his damn eyes at me. So it was  _ me _ he thought was the idiot. 

"He set up a place for us, his lawyer will meet us tomorrow and..." And what, I didn't know, because when you murdered six guys in broad daylight and there were recordings from no fewer than three security cameras of you doing it – because when you did  _ that _ there wasn't a whole lot of room to negotiate a plea deal. He was lucky capital punishment had been thrown out when they signed the peace accords after the wars. 

He arched an eyebrow and his amusement set me on edge.

" _ You _ are my chaperone?"

"Yeah, I fucking am."

He snorted and looked away with a shake of his head.

"I'm surprised they released me into the custody of a felon."

"Yeah, well, strings got pulled or whatever. Besides, I've only been convicted for theft – and that shit's buried under layers of red tape and security clearances." Funny how having dirt on the head of Preventers came in handy when you wanted to get off from the totally legit charges laid on you for stealing millions and millions of creds from war profiteers. 

Less funny when it didn’t do shit to help you get six murder charges dropped and buried and your old… friend whisked away to freedom and safety. I’d tried - I’d called and played nice and asked Une about the weather and Mariemaia and shit but she’d said no. My next tactic, letting myself into her apartment and availing myself to her indecently swank coffee maker while I waited for her, hadn’t been any more successful. Criminally insane. Psychopath. Yeah, so maybe I’d called him those things over the years too, but not, like, with any desire to see him thrown away for it. Not Une. Something about nightmares and the many faces of a man who had turned his back on humanity. Long lecture - about him, about me breaking in, about the fragile peace of the Earthsphere and - and no. Une wouldn’t be helping. Wouldn’t be allowing me to help either.

"Why not Chang or Yuy?"

"Because they have fucking jobs. Sorry that we couldn't arrange a cruise for you – but you know, it was all kind of sudden."

He glanced at me, out of the corner of his visible eye, the other hidden by his damn hair, and the look was chilling.

"Was it?"

I swallowed hard and looked away. I was not prepared to deal with answering that shit. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

The rest of the ride was in merciful, agonizing silence.

When the car pulled to a stop I practically ejected myself, I was moving so fast. I didn't bother to see if he was smirking, or judging. Or doing that damn judgy smirk. Fuck him.

It was a small house, a cottage or whatever that was surprisingly nondescript. I was willing to bet Quatre had his assistant pick it – knowing Space Heart he'd have gone all out or something, out of some desire to give our murdery friend some comfort before he was sentenced to consecutive life sentences hammering rocks into dust on Mars.

The kitchen was stocked, the facilities festooned with all of the appropriate and even more unnecessary toiletries. Only one bedroom, though. I stood in the doorway and glared at the bed and I wished Winner's stupid blond head was on a stick in front of me. 

Seriously? He picked  _ now _ to play matchmaker?

I felt him come up behind me, felt the press of his chest against my back and I caught myself before I could rock forward  _ or _ backward.

"How charming."

I rolled my eyes, not caring that he couldn't see. I'm sure he knew I was doing it anyway.

"Look. Tro -"

He cleared his throat and I turned to glare at him. He arched an eyebrow and I shook my head and gave him a bitter laugh.

"You cannot be serious."

He looked serious, his expression stony, his gaze unwavering. Fuck him.

"I'm not calling you that."

"I'm not answering to  _ that _ ."

I swallowed against the rock or knife or hell, maybe it was an explosive device, in my throat.

"Solo," I bit out and he raised his eyebrows in an expression of polite interest that made me want to punch him.

So I did. 

He let me, had to see it coming from a mile away – had to have seen it coming as soon as he saw  _ me _ standing in front of his fucking cell in the detention center – and when my knuckles connected with his nose it was satisfying, oh so very fucking satisfying to feel it give. 

Not the first time I'd done that, broken his nose – though I realized, as I brought my other fist around to catch him in the stomach in a brutal sucker punch that I'd picked up from  _ him _ \- it might very well be my  _ last _ chance to do it.

He let me pummel him, let me beat the shit out of him until I was out of breath and my face was wet with sweat and fuck, probably tears and snot and spit. He just stood there and let me try to destroy him and when I couldn't, when he was still standing there with his bloody nose and his bloody lips and his bloody fucking face just  _ looking _ at me I fell down to my knees in front of him.

If this had been before – if this had been two years ago – he would have knelt down and tried to pull me into his arms and we would have fought some more, usually until he had me pinned to the floor and my fingers were digging into his skin. But this wasn't before. 

"I'm going to shower."

I saw him walk away, watched his boots on the hard tiles. Step. Step. Step. And then he was gone.

Yet another fucking thing I was used to.

 

-o-

 

I slept on the couch. I ignored his naked, bony ass when he got out of the shower and paraded around like he was a goddamn work of art on display until he found the bag with clothes that Quatre must have had sent. Space Heart – thinks of everything except a fucking second bed.

I ignored him in the morning too, when I showered and rifled around  _ loudly _ for my own clothes – for the bag that I fucking know he had purposefully hidden under the fucking bed and yeah. I shoved the mattress hard enough to jostle him awake when I pulled it out. 

But what the fuck did he expect? Me to fucking serenade him?

The lawyer showed up early, only a few hours into the day cycle and I'd never been so glad to see a bland face in a suit in my whole life.

I let her in and I ignored her shocked face when she saw his – the bruises, the cuts. The swelling. 

"Did this happen at the detention cell?" She demanded, already whipping out a datapad to take notes.

"No."

She looked between us, her gaze assessing, her lips tight, her posture practically screaming  _ holy shit what have I gotten into? _

You and me both, lady. You and me both.

"Mr. Maxwell, do you feel safe here or should I see about getting you transferred to another location?"

It took me a minute to realize she wasn't talking to me. 

"I feel safe."

I just barely contained my derisive snort. As it was, I settled on a shake of my head and decided to make myself scarce. I didn't need to be here for this – didn't need to hear her call  _ him _ Maxwell. Solo. 

Didn't need and, if I was honest with myself, couldn't handle.

I went up to the roof. The cottage was only two stories, narrow – standard pre-fab low income colony housing so the roof was basically a postage stamp. Cramped, cluttered with recyc units and HVAC systems. It felt like being in the underbelly of a ship, and it was pathetic how much comfort I took in sandwiching myself between the units and closing my eyes while I concentrated all of my attention on the unsteady hum of the equipment.

I tried to think of what could be the problem – where in the pick up a part was malfunctioning and creating the  _ whirr _ that interrupted the steady  _ bump bump thud _ .

It was hours – into the night cycle – when he joined me.

Long, graceful body folded up to fit in beside me, our bodies pressed together from shoulder to ankle.

I wished it wasn't so easy to feel the warmth of his body, the steel of his muscles.

I looked at his hands, at the bruised and scabbed knuckles and I pictured it. Pictured his fists beating their faces to a pulp. Pictured his long, fine fingers squeezing the life out of them.

It made me feel sluggish, made my blood feel thick and sloshy and my brain slow.

"You said you'd never leave."

"You've been calling me a liar since the day we met."

Ah, hello there my old friend Manipulation. Blame  _ me _ for not anticipating  _ him _ being a complete asshole. That was pretty much par for the course.

"You said – you said we were family. That we belonged. I gave you  _ everything _ ." The name I stole.  _ His  _ name. “It was yours.  _ I _ was yours.”

"And you thought I would be a pet you could keep on a leash?"

I snorted. As much as the idea appealed to me, no, that hadn't been my intention and he fucking knew it.

"Look T –  _ No name,"  _  I growled angrily. "You -"

"Don't call me that."

It was a plea, a knife twisting into my guts, voice soft and fragile and I looked at him even though I knew I would regret it.

He was a mess – not just the damage I'd done – but his eyes were wild and wet and he was breathing unevenly.

For fuck's sake.

My anger slipped away like oxygen leaking out of an EVA suit and I felt just as close to death. I pulled him into my arms, held him close and he buried his face against my chest.

"You gave it to me," he reminded me and I swallowed hard.

My hand hovered just over his head and I couldn't decide – couldn't decide if I wanted to curl it into a fist and finally fucking end this or - 

I threaded my fingers through his hair, the fine strands like silk against my rough touch.

"Yeah," I agreed and I didn't recognize my own voice. It was like gravel – felt like it and sounded like it. 

I tightened my arms, shifted him, and he practically crawled into my lap.

We sat like that for a long time, long past the time I should have pushed him away. Long past the time I should have realized how fucking wrong all of this was and gotten the hell out of there.

I should have done that the day I met him.

Eventually, far enough into the night cycle, it got cold and my body reminded me that I was no longer fifteen. I nudged him off, took his hand when he gave me a slightly wild look, and we went inside.

No couch for me tonight. Not the way he kept our fingers laced together, letting me go only when I shoved an elbow into his side and glared at him.

We stripped down and climbed into the bed and I held him and closed my eyes and I could almost pretend it was before. 

Except I could feel the scabs on his hands. 

"Why?"

He tensed, his whole body rigid until I pressed a kiss to his shoulder and then the tension was gone and he was sagging against me and he felt so fucking broken and hollow.

"You know why."

I did. Of course I did.

Dominic Mason.

Robert Angleton.

Xan Fou.

Leon D'Amico.

Seth Brown.

Jonathan Forsyth.

Six men brutally murdered and left in a pile. 

Six men who had once been enlisted, had once fought in a war, had once interrogated a fifteen year old kid by raping him.

I kissed his shoulder again because I couldn't think of anything to say. Well, not anything I  _ wanted _ to say.

"It'll be quiet. Peaceful."

His voice was low, a whisper.

"On Mars?"

"The penal colony is still pretty small."

"And Zechs is still running it. Play your cards right and he might invite you over for a game of chess."

We were quiet for so long I hoped he had fallen asleep. Impossible to tell – his heart was always steady, his breathing always even no matter how fucked up things got.

"Say it."

There it was again. That fucking explosive device in my throat.

I placed on entwined hands on his chest, pressed against his heart.

"You're mine."

It wasn't what he wanted to hear.

"You always will be,” I added. That part was for me. It was true. He would always, no matter how far away he was on Mars, be mine. 

I had to clear my throat, had to swallow back fucking tears because once again he was leaving. Once again he'd be gone. Dead in the plague all those years ago. Walking away from me when I couldn't stop trying to ruin everything. Shipped away to Mars to wither and die all over again.

"Solo," I rasped, lips against the shell of his ear. "Solo," I said again and he rolled over.

His eyes were luminous – I could see the entire galaxy in the darkness, could see all of that emptiness reflected back at me and it was terrifying.

He lay still, waited for me to move and when I did, when I kissed him for the first time in two years, for the last time in our lives, his body melted into mine and for one breathless, searing moment I could feel the past and the future align and could dream about a tomorrow that would never come.

Let me go. He'd said that – two years ago. He'd held my hands and pushed me away and ignored the open cut on his cheek and the trickle of blood steadily tracking towards his jaw and he'd begged. Let me go. 

It'd been the hardest fucking thing I'd ever done, that time.

It wasn't any easier now.

 

-o-

 

End

  
  
  
  
  



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